


...and so we destroyed everything

by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce)



Series: Somebody To Die For [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Russian Mafia AU, You may need tissues.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:49:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisNameWasAce/pseuds/YourFadedGlory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted someone to stand up and scream, he wanted Dan to pitch his clipboard across the room or maybe flip a table. He wanted someone to acknowledge the fact that they were falling apart, throwing away what little remained of the season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January 29th-31st, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> **People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _-Thich Nhat Hanh_

By some unspoken agreement, no one ever really talked about it.

They all dutifully pretended they couldn’t hear Flower through the paper thin hotel walls when he woke up screaming, or Duper when he cried in the shower stalls. No one ever mentioned how one moment they’d be gathered around a restaurant table laughing over a couple beers, and the next they were sitting in a somber silence because the glass of Molson they habitually ordered sat untouched by an empty chair.

It was suffocating, all the little ways that Sidney lingered in their lives. Like the stock of peanut butter and jelly in the team pantry, or an extra pair of skates hanging in the repair room, ready to hit the ice but never to be picked up. 

No one had dared to touch his stall, his duffel bag still sitting there, half unzipped with his sweats inside and the last game day suit he’d ever worn folded on top. There might as well have been a force field around it, the way everyone kept at least a three foot radius when walking by it, eyes averted to the carpeting or the walls.

It was late January, nearly February and they hadn’t pulled off a single win since December. If they kept it up, they were on the fast track to rewriting the league’s longest losing streak under their own name, wobbling down the ice listlessly, batting at pucks in blind frustration. 

What was worse, was that no one blamed them for it. No one begrudged Tanger when he dropped his gloves and swung at anything in an opposing jersey. They didn’t glance twice when Kuni passed the puck back to where someone’s tape should have been, but no longer was. When Flower couldn’t find it in him to skate to center ice for the handshake, the opposing team graciously shifted down ice so he wouldn’t have to skate across the exact spot he lost one of his best friends.

Even the media had grown weary of asking the tough questions, not after some no name reporter had made the mistake of asking Claude Giroux what he thought of the Penguins crumbling record. To everyone’s surprise, instead of getting a scathing remark about the team’s dependency on their late captain, Giroux had leapt to his feet and let loose a vicious verbal lashing about grief and respect that ended up plastered across every social media outlet in existence.

While Beau appreciated the sentiment, he’d grown tired of seeing pity in the eyes of their opponents while the scoreboard showed a seven point deficit between them. He was sick of the way that complete strangers in different colored jerseys kept pulling him in and patting his back or squeezing the scruff of his neck. 

He wanted someone to stand up and scream, he wanted Dan to pitch his clipboard across the room or maybe flip a table. He wanted someone to acknowledge the fact that they were falling apart, throwing away what little remained of the season.

And _Jesus effing Christ_ the way everyone was _still_ wearing _black_. 

Beau was sure that no one was really doing it on purpose, but it made him feel like he was stuck at a never ending funeral. Eccentric ties had vanished from existence, game day suits were identical in their bland black material, even socks and cufflinks were shrouded in misery and grief. Each new team they stepped up against were just a new round of mourners who’d come to whisper condolences in the handshake line.

Glancing down through his shower dampened hair, Beau realized he wasn’t immune to the darkness that had descended over the team. Black slacks, black jacket with black socks and black shoes. It was everywhere, the absence of color like a physical manifestation of the pain that hummed just beneath the surface of all their skins. 

With a quiet sigh he reached into his bag and pulled out his tie, knotting the black silk in his fingers with a frustrated huff. 

Gritting his teeth, he set it aside and started pawing through the contents of the duffle. His digging became desperate, yanking hastily at zippers and stretching the seams of pockets with sharp jerks of his fingers. There had to be something, _anything._

Beneath the granola bars, the sweat pants, and the headphones was a slight scrap of electric blue. A tie wrinkled beyond repair, dusted in a fine layer of assorted crumbs, and partially stained by green gatorade, but it was _something_. 

Determined, Beau slipped it around his neck and worked it until the crinkled fabric laid against his dress shirt in all of its nearly neon glory. He could feel all the eyes that settled on him, and when he glanced up it was Duper’s gaze that he met.

The winger didn’t shy away, staring blatantly at Beau’s tie like it was the last piece to a puzzle that had taken weeks of blood and tears to put together. For a moment the blonde hoped he’d inspired something, relit the spark that had once burned in the other’s eyes. But his kind and sorrowful gaze slowly slid away and the older man went back to packing away his gear.

It took a minute for the rest of the guys to start moving again after the silent exchange. Beau could see it, the pinched look of thought in their eyes as they mulled about.

Part of him still believed he’d walk into the room on Wednesday and see a gray beanie, or maybe even a navy blue tie.

But when Wednesday came it did so with the same lack of color and the same deficit on the scoreboard. 

“Beau?”

The blonde blinked slowly, his cheeks cool and damp with tears he hadn’t known he was shedding. Paul was knelt in front of him, the locker room silent as everyone had stopped to stare at them with open concern. 

Beau swallowed past the lump in his throat, pulling at the bright sunshine yellow fabric of his newest tie. “I was so sure…” He muttered, hands shaking as they fell into his lap. “I thought we could do it, just one game, just one fucking game.” 

No one said anything.

Beau picked up his bag, the arena doors clicking close behind him as he marched out into the snow.


	2. February, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the speech Sid had been waiting for, writing it out in his own head, wondering how Alex would break the news. He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known. Hockey had been his life, then it had become Geno and hockey. Now, to save the first, he’d have to give up the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nightmares end. They shouldn't end who you are.**
> 
> _\- Bob Stookey, The Walking Dead_

** Ronan, Montana **

“Again.”

Sid stared down at his jello, the way the red mass jiggled and shimmied with each thrum of his fingers against the tray.

“ _Again_.” Alex insisted, his feet propped up at the end of the bed, the chair he was sitting on precariously balanced on its two back legs. 

Sighing quietly, he watched the jello go still once he’d pulled his hand away. 

“My name is Sidney Joseph Forbes. I was born in Buffalo, New York on January thirteenth, in nineteen-eighty-eight. My mother Lauren and father Jon were my only family, when they died I inherited land just outside of town. When I came to inspect it, I was accidentally shot while hiking in the mountains.”

The response was automatic, ingrained through weeks of repetition. All the necessary paperwork had already been forged, along with a slew of social media accounts and fake employment records. Whatever doubts he’d had about the Russian mafia (The good Russian mafia, the one that involved Alex and a dozen other Russians in the League, and not the actual Russian mafia out of the _country_ Russia which was apparently relatively evil...it was a complicated system, too much so for Alex to convey all the details in English) steadfastly put to bed. His new persona didn’t seem new at all. 

Sid glanced up, Alex giving him a small nod of approval. He’d grumbled endlessly about the effort it took to create a person with enough of a paper and digital trail to make it seem like they’d literally inhabited the world for twenty-six years and not the handful of weeks Sidney had been laying in a hospital bed. From the sounds of it, establishing false identities had been a lot easier when facebook hadn’t been around to track someone’s every move from the time they were thirteen on.

While the Russian’s incessant whining had been nerve grating, Sid was glad for the company. The doctors came and went, nurses too, with polite small talk and appraising tongue clucks. Sid knew most of them by name and had even come to like most of them, but Alex’s taxing presence had become constant, steady in a way that nothing else was. 

But the blabbering Russian never stayed long, he couldn’t. In fact Sid had been surprised at the frequency of his sporadic visits, the Caps were in playoff contention and he couldn’t imagine what sort of stories the gap-toothed captain had been feeding his team so he could jet off to some rural Montana town once a month. While he couldn’t bring himself to watch any sort of coverage on his own team he knew they’d taken a nosedive, plummeting out of contention and crashing toward the bottom of the league. 

No matter how firmly Alex promised he would, Geno didn’t returned to the ice. The team had him listed on IR with an undisclosed upper body injury, because calling it a broken heart would lead to more questions than there were answers.  


“Good, good.” Alex nodded consideringly, his gaze softening.

“This town is small Sid, secluded like bubble. It is slim chance, very slim that they will find you out. But you can’t give them reasons to look twice, da? You can’t play...not like you did.” 

It’s the speech Sid had been waiting for, writing it out in his own head, wondering how Alex would break the news. He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d known. Hockey had been his life, then it had become Geno and hockey. Now, to save the first, he’d have to give up the latter. 

“I can’t...not ever?” The words stuck in his throat, the idea of not stepping out on a sheet of ice for the rest of his life too much to process.

“In private, even recreational so long as you not act like _you_...but you not see professional ice again, at least not until Zhenya is retired.” Alex had the sympathy to wince, eyes cast downward. “Penguins and Zhenya aren’t only ones who lose something special when lose you. I lose favorite rival, sport lose icon. You special Crosby, too special for own good.” 

He sighed and tipped forward until the chair was back on all four legs with a loud clatter in the otherwise quiet room, eyes darting to the diamond encrusted watch on his wrist. It was a telltale sign his time was up. 

“Playoffs are coming fast, I won’t be able to visit.” 

Sid swallowed past the lump swelling in his throat and nodded his understanding. “Keep an eye on Geno.” It was more of an order than a request, one that the Russian accepted without question.

“Nightmares end, Crosby. They shouldn’t end who you are. Find new life passion, I hear log rolling is popular town pastime.” That’s how Alex left, his laughter bouncing through the halls as the door shut behind him, Sid’s face still stuck in a mildly horrified expression.

It was the last time anyone called him by his real name for five months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the little nudges of support. It means the world to me to know you're out there.
> 
> Logrolling anyone?


	3. June, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit by bit, piece by piece they move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“You must be the person you have never had the courage to be. Gradually, you will discover that you are that person, but until you can see this clearly, you must pretend and invent.”**
> 
>  
> 
> _― Paulo Coelho_

Jamie Benn hoists the Cup in June.

Beau watched from his living room as Benn pressed his lips to the silver in a tender kiss, tears rolling down his cheeks for all the world to see before handing it off to Seguin. Seguin, his name carved into the Conn Smythe, passed the Cup to Peverly, Peverly to Daley, to a whole string of guys and ending with the kid, Nishmukin, Nishchunken, or something of the like.

Beau couldn’t remember for sure, but he knew he didn’t have a snowflake’s hope in hell of pronouncing it correctly either way.

It was a hard fought win, for as many tears as there were on that horrid shade of ‘victory’ green, there were just as many drying on Boston’s sorry excuse for gold. Beau didn’t feel much pity for the Bruins, skating away to lick their wounds and drown their regrets. But he didn’t envy the Stars much either.

Every time he’d dreamt of the Cup, every time he’d dreamt of her cool metal pressed into his palms, he’d seen Sidney’s face too--familiar hazel eyes staring back bright, and proud as if to say ‘you’ve done it, you deserve it.’

Those dreams had been the best, but now he woke up with a pillow damp from tears, and Nisky’s back turned to him, muscles pulled taught with the restraint it took for him to lay in bed and pretend he didn’t hear the whimpers, the sobs, the shattered remnants of what should have been.

Beau felt the couch shift as Borts stood up, crossing the living room in three strides to turn of the TV with a swift jab of his finger.

Olli rolled over, tugging a blanket with him as he curled up for a nap. Simon  didn’t even bother with the blanket, just flopped down in a pile with Megna and shut his eyes. They’d been sleeping a lot, all of them, during the day, in piles of muscle and heat that were far too warm to be comfortable in the sticky summer air.

“My flight...it leaves in an hour.” Borts muttered, a half empty beer still gripped in his hand as he leaned against the wall and stared at the archway that led to the kitchen.

They were all in there.

Adsy, Scuds, Kuni, Duper, Flower, Paulie, Tanger, and Nisky.

They’d all brought beer, cases of it and nothing more. The gentle clinking of bottles was the only noise out of the kitchen, no one had peaked in to take ask about the score, or strolled through to offer biting chirps on the way to the bathroom.

“Should go, traffic and security and shit.” Beau replied softly, easing up to his feet and running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah.” Borts agreed stiffly, the easy humor they’d built their friendship on having all but evaporated.

Beau followed him into the kitchen, completely unsurprised, though slightly disappointed to find his remaining teammates curled around amber colored bottles, staring at the walls. He accidently bumped Paulie as he passed, the other man’s beer slipping from between his lax fingers and shattering against the cream colored tile.

Beau watched the foaming liquid fill the channels, Borts coming to a stop beside him, the beer he’d been nursing for the last forty minutes still clutched in his hands.

The blonde could never pinpoint who exactly started the cacophony that ensued, but from one moment the next beer bottles were shattering left and right. Bowls, plates, cups, anything that wasn’t plastic was splintered into hundreds of pieces. Ceramic and glass alike, littered his floors, the beer drying in stagnant puddles throughout the room.

Not a single dish was spared, Beau remembered breaking some of them himself, the cathartic release of feeling a bottle go to pieces as he brought it down against the marble edge of the island.

Once it was quiet, he lifted his gaze from the floor and glanced over the empty cabinets and shout reddened cheeks.

“Next year, will be our year.” Beau whispered, kneeling down to start gathering the larger shards into his palm.

_‘Next year’_. They echoed back solemnly, joining him in the slow going clean up effort.

As they picked up pieces, one razor edged fragment at a time, Beau dared to believe it.

\-----

Jamie Benn hoists the Cup in June.

Sid was sitting in a tight plastic chair, palms sweating, tongue darting out to the lick away the phantom taste of silver he swore was on his lips.

He knew perfectly well what was happening a few thousand miles away, even if he pretended with every ounce of his being that he didn’t. It wouldn’t be even the slightest bit of news in Ronan, a one inch by one inch cube of compressed text in the local newspaper three days after the fact if he was lucky. So the brunette turned his attention to the sandy haired man sitting across from him, skimming over a resume that was about as fake as the handful of his teeth he’d lost in that game against the Rangers.

“Well, Mr. Forbes, your resume is impressive...but why Ronan, why the department?” Blue eyes flickered upward, pale like a winter sky and bright with genuine curiosity.

“I needed a change, I needed a challenge.” Sidney reasoned, sweat beading down the back of his neck and disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt.

“I suppose either of those is as good a reason as any,” Kenneth conceded with a small smile, dragging his looping, lopsided signature across the bottom line.

Sid eased back a bit in his chair, returning the easy expression of contentedness as best as he could with the jagged scar still tender across his cheek.

 **  
**“Welcome Sidney Forbes, to Fire Station One.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who stick by me, who take the time to comment and reassure me that someone somewhere is waiting for me to get my ass in gear and write...you have all my gratitude.


	4. July 4th, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where the fuck did you just go?” Ken asked, lips pulled down in a terse frown.
> 
> It’s the same question he always asked, every time he found Sid with that glazed look in his eyes, staring into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”**
> 
>  
> 
> _― André Malraux_

Ronan, in July, was sweltering.

The skies stayed clear and the sun was unforgiving from the time it cracked at dawn, to when it settled just under the horizon at dusk.

In the month Sidney had spent on the crew, he’d rescued a kitten from a tree and helped render first aid to a summer league baseball player who’d gone down with heatstroke.

Kenneth had joked early on that the first time he was likely to actually hear the engine’s sirens was at the town’s Fourth of July parade.

He hadn’t been wrong.

Admittedly, Sid’s first instinct had been to bail on the traditional festivities. It was only for lack of a viable excuse that he actually agreed to participate.

After all, celebrating America’s independence seemed like a bit of a sham considering he’d been born and raised in a country that subtly boasted a fair few more human rights. But considering how much he listened to Kenneth and Leah gripe and groan about their politicians, Sidney supposed that Americans deserved one holiday where they could blindly boast their patriotic pride if only to forget about the utter mess they’d have to face come July fifth.

His Canadian roots set momentarily aside, Sid ended up riding shotgun, sweat beading down the nape of his neck and settling into the collar of his station issue polo.

Even with the windows rolled down and the rickety AC on blast, the heat radiating off the pavement and through the windshield was enough to turn the engine into a slow cooker.

“Do we get overtime for this?” Sid mused, one arm hanging out the window and waving amicably at the crowds lining the street. People were camped out in folding lawn chairs, the more inventive ones had grill and cooler combos going, while children ran around unchecked to see how many pinwheels and lollipops they could get out of the parade participants.

Kenneth snorted from the drivers seat. His tanned arm was cast out his own window, one hand waving so enthusiastically it was a wonder it didn’t fall off, the other gripping loosely at the steering wheel as they inched along at a whopping four miles per hour.

“Sid, we don’t get overtime when we actually put in _overtime_.” The blonde replied with a grin, the reflective lenses of his too big aviators obscuring his powder blue gaze. “Just be happy you drew the long straw and got to ride along with me. Hoofing it in station polos and uniform khakis, while handing out pinwheels and mini flags to popsicle covered kids is way less fun...Now do your damn job and let her rip!” Kenneth barked, with a smile that was far too much teeth and dimple to be considered anything but smug.

Sid rolled his eyes at the order, he still wasn’t used to answering to another captain, especially one as outlandish as Ken. But the brunette eventually complied, flicking the switch and shattering the lull of parade chatter with the bright trill of the siren. He only let it go for a moment or two, enough to reignite the kids and earn a few smatterings of applause from the adults, before flicking it back off.

* * *

It was a slow going affair, but Sid was grateful he’d managed to pull the long straw. By the time they’d reached their destination- a local park dotted with picnic tables, food stands, and game booths-both Leah and Denny were covered in a sheen of sweat and grumbling about the finger sized popsicle stains dotting their khaki uniform pants.

“Stop griping, first round of beer’s on me.” Kenneth announced, hopping down from the rig and giving Denny a few solid thumps on the back. Seeing as the young brunette wasn’t exactly old enough to drink legally, Ken’s generosity was enough to put a spring back into his step.

Together, they trooped into the festivities, grabbing food and beers on the way to their designated table. They had to share with the town’s police force, but even then they all fit pretty comfortably at the two cherry red painted tables.

Sid spent the early evening sandwiched between Denny and Leah, demolishing a steak and some grilled corn on the cob while listening to everyone else trade stories and spout gossip. It was strange listening to the raucous chatter, not because of the chatter itself, but because hockey wasn’t the topic of importance. He hadn’t talked stats or power play strategies with anyone since Ovie had popped in around mid May, to commiserate the Caps first round exit.

The absence of that connection, to a sport that had defined his entire life, left an ache in his chest...right next to the stabbing agony that was a constant reminder of Geno.

Geno who haunted his dreams, with his lopsided smile and warm brown eyes. Whenever he got caught up thinking about Geno the natural progression of things always took him to Flower, then Duper, Mario, Taylor, Jack, hell he even found himself missing Giroux. Each and every one of them was a prickle of pain just beneath his skin, bearable, but only just.

“Hey.”

“ _Hey_.”

Something ice cold slithering down the back of his neck, yanked Sidney out his memories, hazel gaze darting upward to meet Kenneth’s. Sometime while Sid had been lost in his misery, he’d taken Denny’s seat, his beer bottle pressed to Sid’s skin with the condensation rolling off the amber glass and leaving a cool trail down his neck.

“Where the fuck did you just go?” Ken asked, lips pulled down in a terse frown.

It’s the same question he always asked, every time he found Sid with that glazed look in his eyes, staring into nothing.

Sid never really gave him an answer, he felt like Kenneth was way too close to pulling his facade apart without any additional ammunition. Instead, he simply shrugged, muttering some excuse or another. This time he excused himself to throw away his trash.

* * *

The sun had set and dusk was quickly sinking into the star dotted darkness of night. He’d just dumped his plate and empty beer bottle when the high pitched hiss of a firework cut through the low rumble of the crowd.

Sidney didn’t really think much of it, at least not until it exploded in the night sky in a shower of red and blue sparks with a boom that shook the air.

Suddenly he was back on the ice, that same boom echoing around him. The sound of thousands of feet stampeding for the exits, children crying, and fans screaming punctuated by the snap of gunshots.

Sidney blinked and found himself crouched on his knees, both hands covering his ears as the sky was painted in brilliant shades overhead.

Chest heaving, throat tightening with an overwhelming sense of panic, he forced himself to his feet. He finally did what he couldn’t do then, he ran.

Sid wasn’t exactly sure where he was going, only that one moment he was dodging through a wide eyed throng of people and the next he was huddled beneath the dash of the fire truck. He’d pulled his knees to his chest, pressed his forehead to them and slapped his hands over his ears.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours before the rig’s door was wrenched open. Kenneth was there, pulling him up, wrapping him in a hug that made his newly healed bones ache in protest. The blonde was babbling, quiet reassurances that Sid couldn’t make heads or tails of as his mind flashed with memories of cruel blue eyes and a wolf like smile, of laying in agonizing pain while Alex and Dima smuggled him across state borders, of begging for death so that Geno could live.

“Sidney, **_Sidney_**...it’s over, it’s **over**.” Ken insisted, all the calm bravado he normally radiated, replaced with obvious concern and a flare of anger.

He was right the fireworks had stopped, the haze of smoke and sulfur hanging in the now quiet night air.

Sid sucked in fitful gasps of air, his face damp with a combination of tears and sweat. He clung to Ken helplessly, weak in the knees and shaking from head to toe.

“Jesus kid ,this wasn’t a hunting trip that fucked you up…” Kenneth observed, reaching up and pressing two fingers to the pulse point in Sid’s neck. “What were you, huh? Navy seal, CIA?” He asked, with no trace of teasing or humor.

All Sid could do was shake his head, letting it drop against Ken’s shoulder as his body sagged forward, the blonde’s thick arms catching him around the waist and holding him steady.

“My name is Sidney.” His voice wavered around the whisper with the effort it took to swallow down his sobs. “Sidney _Crosby_.”

Kenneth stiffened against him, his breath hitching.

It was the last thing Sid remembered before he surrendered himself to the feeling of lightheadedness and the promise of oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, this thing writes itself at it's own pace.
> 
> /leaves plate of apology cookies
> 
> This will get happier...eventually.


	5. July 5th, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidney glanced back over his shoulder at the unfamiliar laptop charging on the coffee table. The shadows under Ken’s eyes making sudden and sickening sense.
> 
> “Before you ask, I did, I watched the video...it was kind of an unavoidable presence during my late night google binge.” Ken confirmed, beating Sid to the punch and sucking the air from his sails. “Apparently the professional investigation into the incident has gone ice cold, but there’s a list of online conspiracy forums more than twenty six pages deep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“Most people want to be circled by safety, not by the unexpected. The unexpected can take you out. But the unexpected can also take you over and change your life. Put a heart in your body where a stone used to be.”**
> 
> _― Ron Hall_

Sidney always dreamt of hockey.

He dreamt of games, practices, locker room antics.

The incident hadn’t taken that from him, part of him believed nothing ever could.

Before the incident he used to be able to see their eyes bright and familiar, he used to be able to talk to them, reach out and touch them.

Now, they were all out of focus, their features blurred until their faces became nothing more than indistinguishable smudges. The familiar grace of their play had been stripped away and they skated listlessly around the arena, deaf to his calls, blind to his presence, and every time he tried to reach out and touch they slid right through his outstretched hand like he wasn’t even there.

Sid had given up on trying to get their attention months ago, he found that if he just stood as still as he could, one of them would come to him. Beau was the most frequent offender, his face swimming into focus for a split second, eyes red rimmed and face tear streaked. The blonde’s question was always the same too, “Why weren’t you stronger, why couldn’t you beat them?”

Sidney never had an answer.

Mario and Flower got thrown in the mix too, though neither of them spoke. Mario just stared at him, or rather through him, eyes aged decades with guilt and pain. Flower was the only one who tried to touch him, he’d lift his cage, eyes bright with disbelief and ill placed hope that crumbled away when his fingers failed to find purchase, sliding through Sid like he was nothing more than air.

A few of the others made less frequent appearances. Duper muttering a quiet prayer and crossing him, Kris who shouted in belligerent french far too quickly for him to understand, Kuni who for whatever reason kept offering him stick tape, growing increasingly frustrated each time the offered roll slid right through Sid’s palm and clattered to the ice, where he picked it up from and kept trying until there were tears streaming down his cheeks and Sid’s.

Each encounter only lasted a minute or two before whichever of his teammates had come blurred back out of focus, leaving Sid alone again.

While none of the experiences in these limbo like dreams were really pleasant, they weren’t bad enough to make Sid think of them as nightmares. Part of him hoped that as long as he kept having them he’d get to see Geno, that he’d pop into the rotation, tear streaked or angry...but he’d be there and Sid would get to see him.

Just for a second, a heartbeat even.

But Geno never came.

His face never slid into focus, his number never rushed by in a blur of black and gold.

This time wasn't any different.

This time it was Duper, a familiar golden cross clenched between his teeth as his lips moved in quiet, frantic prayers. It ended like it always did, Duper staring at him in a resigned sort of desperation, drawing a cross over the planes of Sid’s upper body with well practiced ease. Just like that he was gone, just another blurry face amid a team of them, fumbling across the ice.

* * *

Sid blinked sluggishly into the world of the waking, face down in a slightly damp pillow.

The first thing he noticed was the dull throbbing in his knees, the second was that, save for his boxer-briefs, he wasn’t wearing any clothes.

Unable to recall where he was or how he’d gotten in such a state of undress, a jolt of panic speared through his veins, hazel eyes snapping open with a startling amount of awareness between one blink and the next.

He reached out, fingers inching across the flannel sheets in search of another body beside his own. When he found none, Sid eased himself over onto his back and found himself staring at the now familiar vaulted wood beams of his bedroom ceiling.

He was safe, he was in Ronan Montana, living a lie that was the price of the safety of his husband.

Exhaling a breath that he hadn’t been aware he was holding, Sidney took a moment to just lay there and let the shot of adrenalin seep out of his body, leaving him boneless and tangled in a blanket he was sure had been at the foot of his bed and not neatly secured around him like a fuzzy cocoon.

Whoever had taken the care to undress him and tuck him in, had also taken the liberty of tidying up. Frowning slightly, Sid pushed himself up into a sitting position to get a better look around the room, noting that someone had drawn the curtains, placed his now folded station issue polo and khakis on top of his dresser, and lined up his work boots with the pair of running shoes at the foot of the bed.

Pulling the light blanket aside, Sid glanced down his body, taking stock of the now familiar scars and the unfamiliar bruises blooming on his knees. His hands were covered in shallow scrapes and smelled faintly of antiseptic, but aside from that nothing else seemed terribly amiss.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Sid shuffled silently around his room, careful to avoid the floorboards that had a tendency to squeak. He pulled on the first pair of sweats he found, conveniently laid out with a clean t-shirt and a pair of socks.

Puzzled by the subtle niceties, Sid padded out of his bedroom and across the loft like landing at the top of the second floor to peer over the railing at the ground floor below.

From downstairs there was a quiet clinking of ceramic and the gentle gurgle of his old coffee maker cranking out a fresh brew. A blanket was balled up on the couch, along with a couple of pillows, and a laptop that definitely wasn’t his sat charging on the coffee table, next to an open first aid kit and bottle of antiseptic.

Still a bit apprehensive, Sid crept down the stairs, plucking the thick handled umbrella from the bin at the front door as he went. Edging into the kitchen, umbrella held aloft and ready to put a beat down on another psycho Russian, Sidney took a breath to steady himself and steel his nerve before taking the leap around the corner.

* * *

Kenneth was in the kitchen, leaning against the island with his elbows propped on the butcher block as he slowly sipped from one of the novelty mugs that Sid had amassed since he’d moved in. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” He rumbled, voice still gruff from sleep, his blonde hair flattened on one side and sticking straight up on the other.

The blonde arched a judging eyebrow as Sid fumbled with his improvised weapon, more than a little unprepared to find his new boss bent over his kitchen island in nothing but a pair of flannel pajama pants that he recognized as his own. For as at ease as he looked, Sid knew something was wrong, the shadows smudged beneath Ken’s powder blue eyes were glaringly out of place. His boss was normally the epitome of health, always bright eyed and bushy tailed, even on the four am shift trade.

Seeing that Sidney was taking a minute or two to process the situation, Ken straightened up, sliding a mug across the island with a thin smile. “Two sugars, one cream-- just the way you like it. ” He explained pointedly before turning to the stove and running a spatula over a sizzling pan.

Sid slowly lowered the umbrella, taking the coffee, with a pinched look of confusion. He levered himself up onto one of the barstools stationed around the island, his stomach growling in response to the plate of breakfast set down in front of him not a moment after he’d sat down. It was piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, and slabs of toast lathered with peanut butter and jelly.

His heart clenched painfully at the nostalgic snack, when he glanced up after a moments hesitation he found Ken staring right back with a sad but knowing gleam in his eyes.

“I told you...didn’t I?”

Ken nodded, face studiously blank. “If you count having a panic attack and passing out in my arms after whispering your true identity to me, then yeah, you told me.”

Sidney glanced back over his shoulder at the unfamiliar laptop charging on the coffee table. The shadows under Ken’s eyes making sudden and sickening sense.

“Before you ask, I did, I watched the video...it was kind of an unavoidable presence during my late night google binge.” Ken confirmed, beating Sid to the punch and sucking the air from his sails. “Apparently the professional investigation into the incident has gone ice cold, but there’s a list of online conspiracy forums more than twenty six pages deep.”

Sidney swallowed uncomfortably. With his piercing gaze trained so unwaveringly, there was no way Ken missed the nervous tick, but he plowed on like he hadn’t even noticed.“None of them are even close, but I suppose that’s the point isn’t it, disappear into little Ronan where not a soul cares for hockey, where you could change your name and your story under the guise of a hunting accident gone wrong and no one would be the wiser.”

There wasn’t any hostility in his tone, but Sidney could read the sharp glint of mistrust in Kenneth’s gaze, a subtle demand to fess up or face the wrath of small town justice.

“I didn’t want to lie to you, to _anyone_...I wasn’t even supposed to make it out alive, I made a deal to _die_.” Sid whispered, watching a bit of tension bleed out of his friend’s shoulders, a twitch of empathy on the his lips.

“He found me before the game, I always took the same route so I wouldn’t have to go past the visitor’s locker room, he was waiting for me-”

“Who?”

“I never learned his name, but he was Russian and he was _angry_. There are these laws there about...” Sid swallowed thickly, wondering for a moment if revealing this intimacies of his deal with the devil was such a good idea.

“Homosexuality.” Ken filled in, making Sid jerk his head up, scanning the other man’s face for any sort of disgust or hatred. The blonde’s features softened even more at that panicked glance, he offered a small encouraging smile. “We may not care about hockey in Ronan, but we do watch the news Sid, the whole situation in Sochi wasn’t completely lost on us.” He explained gently.

“I was in a relationship with one of my teammates-”

“Malkin.” Ken cut in again with a nod of self satisfaction.

Sid nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to be able to talk about Geno without losing control.

“They--the Russian government or the mob, I’m not sure--they weren’t happy about it, about one of their core country representatives getting hitched to the Canadian gold boy. This guy had photos of us, I don’t even know how he got them, but he had them. He kept asking me if I loved Geno, I told him I did, every time he asked I always said yes...that’s when he gave me the choice.”

Sid knuckled his eyes, willing the tears back. “Surrender myself at the end of the second intermission, or they’d kill him, they’d kill Geno.”

“So you gave yourself up, just like that?”

“I didn’t have a choice, not really, I couldn’t let them hurt him.” Sidney muttered weakly.

“How did you survive, how did you get here?” Ken asked, mystified.

“I don’t know. I woke up in an ambulance, the guy, the Russian one was in it dressed as an EMT. I think he was trying to keep me alive, as bait for Geno, or something. I blacked out and when I woke up I was in the back of a car with Alex and Dima, they were smuggling me across the state borders, trying to get me here.” Sid shrugged, he’d never managed to piece together what it was that the Russians had needed him alive for, Alex had a few grisly theories about secret government prisons where captured players from rival countries were tortured for information on their country’s teams.

Sid had figured that was a bit too much like movie magic, but then again his apparent assassination and rebirth in small town America sounded like something straight out of some D-list script too.

“Alex Ovechkin?” The blonde mused. “Isn’t he Russian though?”

“Apparently there’s two sects, the Russian guys devoted to the medieval ways of the motherland, and then the guys who’re all for toppling the tyranny. Most of the NHLers, like Alex and Dima, fall into the second category. The ones who don’t are like Geno, they aren’t even aware of the two sides, let alone the underground war between them.”

“If assassinating the biggest name in hockey on live television during a primetime rivalry match is their idea of underground, I don’t wanna know what their idea of open warfare is.” Ken muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face and dragging it back through his blonde locks with a look of grim resignation. “You can’t go back?” He asked hesitantly.

Sid shook his head, dejectedly picking at a piece of toast and a bit of the eggs. “They’d kill us, no negotiation, no preamble--shot dead where we stood. Alex barely got me out once, I don’t think he could pull it off again.” He mumbled miserably.

“If I trained you to protect yourself and those around you, would it help, would it give you a shot at going back?” Ken asked earnestly, blue eyes bright with a determination Sid had come to admire and dread in equal measures.

He found it in him to smile a bit at the blonde’s well meaning offer. “No offense Ken, but I don’t think your ability to gracefully descend a fire pole with a toothbrush shoved in your mouth, in nothing but a towel draped around your waist is gonna do it.” Sid replied gently.

“Sid, fighting fires and rescuing kittens is my version of an easy retirement. Do you have any idea what I did _before_ taking over the station?” Ken asked, with a mischievous grin.

It was the one Sid always saw before he had a handful of ice cube shoved down the back of his shirt. He eyed Kenneth warily, but after a moment of thinking, the brunette realized he didn’t actually have an answer. He’d always assumed Ken had been something of a career firefighter, born and raised in Ronan with the notion he wanted to help people and that this was the way to do it. “What did you do?” Sid asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I was a Navy SEAL.” Ken stated matter-of-factly, an underlying glint of pride in his eyes. The scars that marred his skin painted in a new light of camo and gunfire, instead of flames and turnout gear. His broad shoulders and well packed muscles coming together in the image of the perfect soldier instead of the perfect candidate for the annual charity calendar.

“You could train me?” Sid hedged, more weary than not. Kenneth’s brand of crazy made a bit more sense now, the way nothing seemed to really phase him. Sid wasn’t sure he wanted to get his sense of fear and rationality beat out of him, the blonde certainly lacked both in vast quantities.

“I can try, it’s not like we’ve got wildfires burning up our time or anything.” Ken quipped with that easy smile of his, the one Sid had come to associate with gruelling karaoke tournaments and in office Nerf gun wars, similar too but not quite like the grin that warned of ice cubes. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if Ken’s old teammates had associated it with hand grenades and hot wiring tanks.

Frowning slightly, he leveled Ken with a look that made the blonde squirm under such blatant scrutiny.

“What?”

“You _jinxed_ it, we’re gonna get a call in five minutes about some idiot camper setting off a wildfire of record breaking proportion.” Sid accused his boss with a pointed scowl.

Ken rolled his eyes so hard that for a second Sidney thought they might roll straight out of his head. “They weren’t kidding about you and your fucking superstitions.” The blonde griped, turning back to his own plate of breakfast.

Exactly seven minutes later their pagers lit up like christmas trees.

It wasn’t a forest fire, but for Ronan, the local hotdog cart going up in flames was the closest thing they’d had in years.

“Fucking hockey god voodoo,” Kenneth grumbled, cuffing Sid over the back of the head as they scrambled out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have become addicted to Hawaii Five-0. My binge watching has become a problem. 
> 
> I felt the desperate need to have a navy SEAL character and Ken fit the bill.
> 
> For everyone who left such wonderfully nice comments on the last chapter THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU.


	6. September, 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau knew that people were going to stare.
> 
> But it wasn’t the extra muscle he’d put on, the sun kissed tan, or the close cut crop of his hair that drew their attention.
> 
> It was the tattoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **“But the thing about remembering is that you don't forget.”**   
>  _― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried_   
> 

Beau knew that people were going to stare.

But it wasn’t the extra muscle he’d put on, the sun kissed tan, or the close cut crop of his hair that drew their attention.

It was the [tattoo](https://41.media.tumblr.com/329d6490a7ed0f952c3168dc859b00e8/tumblr_mgfq5m6Uls1qbby7co4_250.png).

The pair of broad black lines that looped around his bicep demanded attention, but it was the four words carefully inked between the bands that were of importance to him.

_‘O Captain My Captain.’_

Back in California it hadn’t really meant anything to anyone, but here, Beau knew it would be understood. He could feel the weight of his teammates’ eyes as they settled on the stark black ink, weighing the phrase on his skin against the grief in their hearts. For a moment he allowed himself to be observed, willingly submitting himself to the scrutiny of the locker room at large.

They had to know, even the skittish looking prospects who’d be shipped down by the end of the week, had to understand. The grief was there, in some respect it always would be. However, it was no longer an excuse.

He was ready to carry the weight of Sidney’s death, he was ready to prop that anger and heartache up on his shoulders as motivation. It’s what had driven him under the California sun all summer long. One glance at the words that wrapped around his arm and he found the endurance to sprint the final mile, the strength to curl those extra sets, and the focus to sink his final shots in the clutch of the twine.

Yanking on a fresh t-shirt, the edge of the bottom band just peaking out beyond the pale blue sleeve, the blonde whipped around and found himself eye to eye with Duper.

He’d bulked up some as well during the off-season, the fabric of his shirt stretch tight over broader shoulders.

Beau could still see a shadow of the broken man he’d been at the end of the season, picking up shards of ceramic from his kitchen floor-- pale as a ghost, thin from a lack of appetite, eyes hollowed out and glazed.

Now those same eyes stared back, still a bit weary, but focused and filled with something like contemplation. The corner of the older man’s lip twitched upward, the closest thing to a smile Beau had seen from him in months, and that alone felt like a victory.

“It looks good on ya, Sunshine.” Duper said gently, giving Beau’s arm a pointed squeeze before turning back to his stall.

* * *

 

Beau expected that to be the end of it, only the next day the skin of Duper’s arm was flushed an angry red. He already had ink on both sides, but on the right there was just enough room beneath the tribal work for the band--thick, black, looped around his bicep, with a [cross](http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2014/076/4/a/ruslan_moshkins_armband_tattoo_hammersmithtatt_by_hammersmithtattoo-d7aknys.jpg) cutting through the middle.

After Duper it was Flower, whose band was undoubtedly the thickest, a [flower](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/c1/69/82/c169824dda815f7374ceb04b554be85e.jpg) nestled on the inside of his arm as homage to the nickname Sid had made commonplace.

Kuni, whose [twined bands](http://www.botchthecrab.com/post_images/tattoo_armband.jpg) illustrated the give and take it took to stand as an alternate captain.

Tanger’s as [solid](http://36.media.tumblr.com/86ecb63cca09d0db672c9e2832935f37/tumblr_mh1lxnTlAp1ru96oao1_500.jpg) and heavy as his grief.

It became a way for them to carry Sidney’s memory without feeling like it was chained to their soul. Like a line of dominos, every one of them took to the notion and got some version of it done. Each new design made individual by the memory or meaning incorporated into it while still retaining a sense of unity that the team had lacked in the absence of their captain.

PR had thrown a hissy fit at the sudden plague of ink and all the inquires it was spawning in the tabloids, but for once Beau couldn’t be made to feel guilty by their narrowed gazes and audible huffing.

Duper was _smiling._

Olli had started talking again.

Flower had found the gumption to skate past center ice.

It wasn’t healing, not quite yet, but it felt like they were getting closer.

Beau found that practices went smoother, that machine like groove settling in as they pushed through training camp, whittling down the roster until every man standing on the ice was one who’d lived through the nightmare and come out the other side of it beaten and broken, but ready to be put back together.

 

* * *

He’d been reflecting happily on the progress, alone in the locker room after a grueling morning skate, baby blues settled on the untouched pair of yellow crocs sitting in the corner by the door, when Mario walked in.

Mario had beefed up his presence around the team since they’d come back from the summer break, stopping in to give a few words of encouragement to the younger guys, a steadying hand to the older ones. His hair had taken on a few thick streaks of gray that made Beau’s heart clench uncomfortably, but his gentle smile hadn’t seemed to age a day.

“Beau.”

The blonde nodded in greeting, watching the older man follow his gaze, anguished recognition dawning across his face before he schooled it back into the calm mask it normally was.

“He’d have been proud of you.” Mario said softly, pulling up one of the folding chairs and sitting down across from Beau. “You’ve done the lion’s share of trying to get this team back in fighting shape.” He swallowed thickly, hard hazel eyes wracked with guilt. “It should have never fallen on your shoulders and I’m so sorry that did...you’ve earned this Beau.” Mario extended the jersey and Beau took it from him with a small frown of confusion.

**_BENNETT_** was printed across the back, a familiar _**19**_   stitched into the fabric.

Turning it over, the blonde felt the air rush out of his lungs like he’d been sucker punched.

There, on the front, was a bolded _ **C**_.

“ _No_.” Beau shook his head, shoving the jersey back at Mario like it’d burned him. “I don’t want it.” He muttered, voice hoarse.

“Beau-” Mario started, sympathy bleeding from his tone.

“ _I. Don’t. Want. It_.” Beau insisted. “This season, I think we can manage with just the A’s.” He added softly, tearing his gaze away from the offending letter.

To him it was still Sid’s.

“Duper said the same thing.” Mario admitted with a small, sad smile. Folding the jersey, he got up, uttering a quiet but understanding ‘goodbye,’ he left. Once he was gone, Beau let out a shaky breath, drawing his knees up to his chest where a dull ache flared to life with vengeance.

For the first time since December, he gave into the burning sting behind his eyes, letting the tears he’d been holding back all summer fall freely.

**  
** It wasn’t like those stupid crocs could tell anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So once I gave Beau a tattoo, I had to give _everyone_ a tattoo. Flower's is actually just meant to be the top band, not the thinner ones under it, but I was too lazy to crop the photo. Yes I beefed Beau up, cut off his blonde locks, and inked him up. It's just one of my favorite head cannons that he grows into Mr. Badass. I know you wouldn't be able to tell because of the jersey sleeves, but I just had a picture stuck in my head of the boys lined up on the blue line, each one of them with a tattoo on their right arm for Sid. Anyway, enough of my rambling.
> 
> As always thank you for the wonderful comments and feedback, it makes my world go round.


End file.
